Would That I Might

I had a rather slow day as far as writing went.  I got a few poems done, and worked a bit on my current story, but it was somewhat minimal.  In some ways, I am glad to have gotten myself into a more flexible routine, yet I still miss the sense of being productive, especially that sense of having done a significant amount of work.  At the same time, I am also aware, and always was, that volume is not quality, though this is often countered, in my mind, by the recognition that more time writing is practice, even when the specific piece is flawed, and that great work is often revised into existence from far lesser drafts.  I think that my current output is still quite high, in general, but I also find that increasing my output is the only thing i have control over in terms of feeling any type of accomplishment.  In the end, I think it is that which often drives me, and what concerns me when I have a day like today, where I write less, is the question of whether it reflects on some interna

Perspectives You complain that I do not change, am always the one causing trouble with my needs and inflexibility, but were it me tonight, were I the one who found the propane tank was empty just then, as everyone gathered to have dinner, I would decide to bake my chicken in the oven, not to run out and delay it all by several hours, though it is clear, it only counts when I cause trouble.

 I voted today, which was mostly far more pleasant than I had expected.  When Melissa and I decided to go, we went and checked out a few different polling places that are open in our area for early voting, and drove by a few of them at specific times when we thought they might be less busy.  Since Melissa has worked as a clerk at various precincts in elections prior to this, she has a sense of the usual pattern, and we did find a time when there wasn't a real line.   Their was one thing that did bother me greatly.  When we went to insert our ballots into the machine that reads them, the man working at that station treated me as if I were a child, literally telling me that I did a "great job" when I got the paper into position.  Melissa was with me, and he did nothing of the sort to her. At first I was rather befuddled as to why he would treat me this way, but I suspect it is to do with his noting that I needed Melissa to assist me with my ballot.  As I said last night, I

What Is This Hour Called? Night ended but the dawn waits too, it is moonless and sunless with no dark  or light, night gave way but not one bit is yet taken over by the day's emergence, nothing of day begins, appears, the sky is not night's, the sky is  not the same as in the day, it is another way for it to be, one that should not have ever been, but the night had to end, even if dawn will not enter or allow the day to come.

I have an early day tomorrow, and I am rather anxious about the morning for various reasons, so I am working to get finished early, get some sleep, and try to make the best of things.  Honestly, I have an appointment tomorrow that I hope will go well, but which already had me somewhat conflicted, and the introduction I had to the person I am meeting involved me receiving and being forced to fill out a large set of forms, and it is, for me, a rather upsetting thing.  For me, as a person with severe dyslexia, I have a fair amount of difficulty interpreting certain kinds of information.  I am not all that capable of filling in blanks or grids, and often misunderstand visual cues others interpret without thought.  For this reason alone, it is quite hard for me to fill out a form.  If it is intended to be done by hand, that is also physical torture, as a result of the specifics of my learning disabilities, which I have discussed here before.  If the form is on computer, this reduces certain

After Lessons It is not the way others see it, not at all the way it is for them, is the way for me, though, has been the way, was the way even then, is still true, even with years attempting, working at improvement, it will always remain, is a part of me, if only it were possible to show another.

I finished the first draft for the essay I've been working on and I am quite happy with it right now.  That is, of course, in the aftermath of having finished it, not having yet begun looking at it for revision.  I know already that some of it will need work, and I am concerned that a certain portion of it is rather dry, but I do feel that I managed to land the ending and the start still feels good, at least in a larger sense, even after a few days.  It is a complicated topic, and I am uncertain of the reception it might receive, as I have said before, but I think the essay makes a solid case, and does it in a way that is approachable and, perhaps, even entertaining or maybe interesting is a better term for it.  In any event, it feels good to have a draft done on that piece, as I was concerned it might take far longer to get through.  Tomorrow I will need to begin revision, of course, but my main concerns with that are about citation and such, not the structure.  There is bound to

I Made A Small Mistake I named the son, or maybe it is the grandson or it could be a woman, the name is ambiguous on that matter, I think, at least in some countries, some cultures, but it does not matter because the one I meant to name was a man, but a man from before in the same family, an ancestor of the latter one, who might be a daughter or son or grandchild, but is not the one who did it, cannot be the one who I said did it, because it happened before they were born, happened before them being at all, no matter what name or gender, they did not have anything yet, did not do anything except wait to be, but the one before them, he was there, did it, but I did not give that name at all.

 I have had a lot of very upsetting events in recent days, and things are really quite strange for me in so many ways at the moment, but I am attempting to be hopeful as much as I can.  I'm working hard, still, even if I can't seem to get the traction I am hoping for, and I am attempting to be smarter about things in my personal life and choices as well.  It is not clear to me that anything is going to change, and that is quite upsetting in terms of many things happening now, is the way things are on every level from personal to national and beyond, and facing that is truly daunting.  I keep seeing how things are in my own life and the way it is a repetition of larger patterns, of how my experiences are representative of a smaller version of the same problems that exist at a larger scale, and I am not certain how to deal with that, or even how to express it accurately.  In the end, I have to do what I must to keep going, and to care for myself and those I love, though what that

What Are You Watching? It does not seem we have been watching the same program at all, somehow have caught different stories from the same channel, which surprises me so, but is not strange when I consider how you interpret your actions, when you speak of who you see in the places where I am also standing.

 I've got a lot of ideas of late that I want to get into my work, but many of them are difficult to even begin addressing, and it concerns me that they are also idea that might be taken as offensive, though that is not the intent.  I have written a few poems that touch on some of these subjects, but my thinking has gotten to deeper layers of these topics, and it feels as if some of the thoughts I am considering are confrontational to things in ways that would be inherently unsettling and potentially destructive to important conversations.  At the same time, it feels as though the inability for some of these questions to be raised in a broader context suggests a limit to who is included.  The Dracula essay I am working on is an example of some of this, though it is a less pronounced example of my concerns.  In this era when we are reconsidering so much of our culture, it still feels that the discussion might be difficult to begin on this subject, that many will dismiss the concerns

Who Were Those Guys? Those men who had orange songs caked under their nails, hands stained with the sound, and between their teeth roundness kept getting caught so their tongues were always worrying about the gums, mouth's bouncing about as they attempted to dislodge a shapeliness  stuck too deep, they dared not use their hands, would not allow those nails, what was there to be inside them.

It is very frustrating to me that I am always told that I need to wait and get lucky in my career.  This is partly because I think it rather absurd that I have spent so much time and money on developing as a professional, with that as the clear goal of what I was pursuing, only to be told at the end, it was not at all about actually starting a career and had not prepared me to overcome the real obstacles.  However, it is also a matter of not wanting to be asked to rely upon luck when I have extremely terrible luck in general. On a daily basis, I have things that go wrong in ways most people dismiss as random occurrence, things that happen on occasion to everyone, but happen to me with shocking regularity.  If restaurants messed up most people's orders as often as they do mine, for example, that would mean that almost every table at a restaurant has at least one person who did not receive what they ordered.  At present, the house where I live does not have a functional kitchen, so w

There Is Less but we must give more, that is the way it is now, they take more, but allow less to come before they take, why did we let them be the ones who choose both:  how much we get and how much they can take?

I am feeling quite low at the moment.  Their are many factors to this, and I have commented on some already, but it still feels as if the aspect of this that is most central is the failure I am facing in my career at the moment.  Many other aspects of my life are interconnected, and it seems to me that the difficulties I am having professional are core to many of the other issues, for reasons far too complicated for me to express here.  That, of course, presents the deeper problem of attempting to find a way beyond my current troubles, a solution I have long been seeking with no luck.  Still, other things are so strained and warped, it would be even more difficult to believe those matters can actually be resolved positively right now, or even change in a true sense in the short term.  I feel the pressure to get work published in a different way, at the moment, as a remedy to other pains that result from situations I feel even less empowered to change or address in an authentic and mean

Displacement In a week, each home felt gone, the places of the past, the place of the present, all the places that had been important in that way that were still that, were still home, they all seemed gone, even when within those walls, it was clear the sense of what it was had been taken, as if the walls had been ripped apart, it was no longer possible to find anything at all of what had been there.

 I am attempting to remain focused on my work right now.  It has not been easy, but I did begin a new essay today that I feel is important, and which deals with the issue of anti-Semitism in Dracula, as I mentioned before here.  It is, of course, a far more well planned piece, and I have only gotten through the introductory section this far, but I think I have a good sense of how to continue.  The hardest part may be creating proper citation and such, as I've been reading so much the information is largely integrated into my thinking at this point.  I think I am going to lay out the essay first and then work on those aspects next.  I can lay out a first draft and find the places where I want to add specifics, so I am not trying to dig it up while writing, chasing down a source I can't find and avoiding the real work. I've also been working on fiction and poetry.  I think I am getting to the heart of the story I have been writing, which has been rather slow to develop, but I

Disjoint It is clear, you do not mean the same as I do, that your idea of it being the same is not based upon an understanding of the specifics, that you do not see my experience, only see the same things that are true for you, even when I speak of the pain I am feeling, you only tell me everyone hurts, do not wonder if it is my own and not identical to whatever you carry and refuse to admit.

 It has been another very intense and strange day, and their is always more being thrown into the mix with my family right now.  I am not getting into things at all, but the entirety of what has been occurring has now been added to things out of left field that should be unrelated but had to occur right now.  It is quite strange how things can always get crazier, even when it feels too extreme already.  I know I am not making a great deal of sense, or offering any real specifics, but the truth is, I do not know what specifics to share at this point.  Things are so turned around, in so many ways, even if I wanted to tell the whole story, I would be unsure of what is true or not right now, even just in terms of basic information.  And, of course, throughout it all, I am still getting rejections for more of my poems, as a small reminder or addition or garnish, reader's choice.  It may seem a distinct issue, but in so many ways it feels very connected to the rest.

Seeking Perspective I speak to her on the phone explain much of what it is that has occurred in the past week, she listens with sympathy, tells me  it will be hard to hear her, but it is true, that years ago she saw me with my parents and left to cry in her car about what it was she had seen, her pain thinking on her own children, how she did not want to be that way to them, that such behavior is a sign it will never change, that it will always be as it is, that it cannot change and it might be so, or it might be I will make it so if I do not withstand, or is it just stoicism to allow that.  I do not know at all, know I do not want to say she is right, that it is beyond repair, but I also know I cannot recall the conversation she witnessed, too many others, but not that one.

 I am going to try taking a break from talking about my family drama tonight, though it continues.  It is not any clearer to me today than yesterday, and I don't really know that writing about here would be helpful.  Indeed, it feels that focusing on work is probably important for me right now, both in terms of practical concerns and because it is a distraction for me. I'm ready to send out my new chapbook, which I am thinking of titling Reflection.  I think it is quite good, as a collection, but I do worry about a reader not getting in far enough to discover the book in a real sense, as the second half impacts the meaning of the first in order to change the meaning of those poems.  I shared the work with Kevin Pilkington, a poet I studied with at Sarah Lawrence who has remained a mentor for me, and he was quite enthusiastic and felt that the approach was not one he had seen before.  I think it represents a significant piece of work for me, in a way that is not only about publi

Spinning Tops Was Never Simple in the way it might seem for anyone else, was a matter of having fingers move in this precise way and stop at that moment when it must be, no later or sooner or it will fall over, but I did learn, it took time but I learned, though it is still an effort, is never a thing I have found a capacity for without thought of each motion, of those details others never needed to notice at all.

 The past few days have been insane, and I am feeling lost.  Everything that seemed positive turned negative, and then things would seem to be better, but only before getting even worse.  Last night and this morning, I thought my mother was going to cut me off entirely, and even though things seem to be turning around tonight, I still do not trust that it is real.  If it helps to improve things in my familial relationships, it may be worth it, but that does not change how I feel now.  This has been devestating and exhausting, and I feel mentally and emotionally frazzled to an extent I never have before.  I want to trust that things may be improving, that things might be less dramatic, but it is hard to believe that is true with everything that has happened.

Where Are You Leading Me? It is all haze now, no way to see beyond the fog, to know what is ahead, if it is safe, if the ground ends or if the forest does: perhaps there is a clearing ahead, or is it the sea, a swamp? It is possible, it may be anything, may be a field of flowers, but it cannot be determined, not now, it is impossible now.

 I am at a point of crisis with my mom and my brother, and I really just feel like I have no way out, that I have been forced into a situation I was trying to avoid because, one I sensed was this destructive, by my family on purpose, because they knew I wanted to avoid it.  I feel awful in so many ways and I don't have any idea of what to do or how.  I need help, if only in terms of support.

Where I Am What it was at first thought, what I felt then, you convinced me to ignore, told me I was wrong to have worries, to think this way instead of that, but that must have been attended, seeing the way you have turned this into everything I was afraid it would be.

 I do not have the energy to write a great deal tonight.  As I have expressed in the past few entries, I am in the midst of a great deal of family drama, and I feel that I have been mistreated in ways that have been ignored or labelled as meaningless, and now it is beyond tolerable.  The part that makes me feel the worst about it is the fact that my brother is simultaneously acting in ways that are harming me while also speaking of recognizing the things that have been done to hurt me in the past that he is replicating, and claiming that he wants to make things better.  I do not know at all what to do, but I feel rather trapped right now, if I am honest.

A Long Time Here Is this another day of the same week or is it a week after? What does it matter, each day is just a sun rising, setting, but beneath that, only the grass has seemed to notice.

I am really in need, at this moment, of something good.  I described things that were going on in my family recently, and they are continuing in ways that have been very upsetting to me all day.  My brother is acting as if he wants to make things better and my mother is acting as if she even resents me even more now.  I am certain more has happened that I do not know about.  It is also clear that, though I believe my brother wants to make things better, he does not really get a lot of what is wrong, and I felt very much that I was being ganged up on at many points in the evening, especially since it felt as if Melissa was being excluded.    It is rather difficult to determine what any of it will mean, really, as I am also aware that my mother and brother are very close, and he still has very upsetting and warped views about things.  I attempted to discuss certain traumatic experiences I had when I was a teenager that have had real ramifications for me as an adult, including an incident

Family Therapy I appreciate the effort, the willingness (it seems honest) to work towards making better, towards healing wounds that exist within and between us, and I do believe you desire it, that you have begun to see, and I will make the effort, am willing to work at this, but it is not going to work, is clear to be a failure because I am thinking already that you are again taking credit for what I suggested before that everyone refused just because I was the one who had said it.

Earlier today my brother told me he was never going to speak to me again after our Mother dies and intentionally backed a car into me.  My mother tried to hit me in the balls and told me that feelings I had expressed were a sign I needed "deep psychological counseling."  It was really a wonderful morning.  They decided to forgive me at some point, or at least to feign that much, and so spent the rest of the day pretending all that was meaningless.  I did get a wan apology from my brother about the comment, but neither of them even asked if I had been hurt by the car, or said anything to apologize for that.   To explain how all this started: Melissa and I bought a house and moved.  It is quite near my mother, and we were concerned about this.  We attempted to establish certain boundaries, but had some difficulty.  While I do feel that they are respected, I also feel that the reality that Melissa and I have different needs, in terms of our own space, is a thing that I feel is i

Things Have Changed I do not want this to be between us, but it is now,  and it cannot be removed by any outcome I can imagine: if you do not get what it is you want, I will feel guilt for what I already had, and if you do get it, I will feel violated. I asked before, when this was not the way, when there was not this, but you made certain, you can say it was not a choice, can pretend it was nothing you did, but it is between us now, though I wanted better, wanted the respect of being treated better, and everything so far has shown me that was never a concern.

I have had a rather terrible day, and I do not want to get into it here, but I am feeling rather low.  For a bit, I had considered not doing any writing, but it was only a momentary thought, and even now I am debating writing a little bit more after this, although it is already almost three in the morning and I need to be up early.  I am feeling a great deal of stress, and I had some very upsetting interactions with some members of my family that have long term ramifications and which seemed to suggest that my concerns are irrelevant to them.  It is as if no one is able to see it from my perspective at all, and I feel very hurt by that, let alone that they are talking about taking actions that would really be upsetting to me and impact my daily life for years to come, in ways that I would find very difficult to deal with, and it feels intentional.  This is, of course, all on top of a lot of other stress about the world and the pandemic and the future, as well as the stress I feel about

I Told You Before  It was said.  I said to you I what it was I felt, asked to be given  this, told you, made clear, asked you before, when it was only a thing I feared, I had dreamt might come to pass, and now you come and ask me if it is alright, ask me as if it is a question, but you knew already it would not be, knew you were not asking me but stating your intent to violate me this way, to show I did not deserve my needs respected, placing me in a situation that would force me to give you permission, to say it was fine for you to do this, to do what I asked not to happen, because I never wanted even to be in the situation having to be asked, even that seems proof you had decided already it was what you wanted, because you knew it would cause me harm, because you do not want unless you are also taking.

 This week is just taking a lot out of me at the moment.  I am trying to wrap my work early tonight, as I have not been sleeping well and I need to be up early again in the morning.  I didn't even have a chance to write this morning, and I expect tomorrow will be similar.  I have managed to get four poems done today, and a bit of work on my current story.  For me, that feels rather small as an output for the day, but I also know it is far more than I would have been writing for much of my life, that it represents the change that comes when one accepts one's work as a true discipline and practice, or at least that is how it has seemed for me.

Dangling I was hanging from the rope for so long, I cannot say the time it took, cannot say in seconds or minutes but can be certain it was hours for me, even if only ten minutes that it lasted, it was hours, dangling there, hanging, stuck, incapable of any progress, holding so tight, any slip a potential last, just dangling for ever, for so long that even now I might be there too, it may be I am still stuck, that I am there now, even if I am here, I may not have made it back, I do not know, but  each morning I find  the dark red of friction burns in each of my palms.

I am, again, not finding the energy to say much here.  It has been another overwhelming day, in so many different ways, and the nature of the current situation in the world makes everything personal.  I have much I wish I could say, but I do not yet have the capacity to express it fully.  I have been able to do a fair amount of writing, though not as much as I would have liked, or, at least, hoped, but I feel good about the work itself.  I am feeling quite pressured about my current situation, in terms of getting work published, for many reasons I do not know how to communicate accurately, but I am trying to remain optimistic, as much as I can, and to recognize the signs of positive change, and even more, to take the time to notice what is still good and beautiful in the world.  I wish I were better at that, but I do try.  I think I am going to go see if the moon is out so I can spend some time admiring it.

I Do Not Want to Be Here would be glad to be in another place, though that is not it at all, because any other place might be as bad, and it is not that I do not wish you to be there, because anyone else would bother me, would make me sneer and wish to be alone, though I do not wish at all to be alone,  to have only the company of a person like me is not fun (as you must be seeing first hand right now, considering my wonderful choice for a topic to converse upon), so do not feel bad, it really is not at all anything about you.

I am going to keep this short, as I have a very busy day tomorrow, but I have gotten a lot of writing done today, in spite of other responsibilities.  I feel that I am in a very productive state at present, and that my work has been changing in ways I think are quite positive.  As well, I feel that I am in that magical space where I can just start a poem and know what I am doing, or at least trust it to come together.  I am experimenting in the work, doing things in terms of language and structure that I wouldn't have considered until now, and I think it is resulting in some very good work.  It is strange, as I have so much other work I still want to publish, but it is feeling, already, very misrepresentative of the directions I am going in now.

The Edges Meet Each Other They have been far apart until now, have not met at all before, they are the edges, the ends, and one must go here while the other goes there, but they have met now, will know each other even when the connection is all the space between.

I have been doing quite a bit of research this week, particular to do with depictions of Jews in literature.  It is rather strange, some of what I have encountered, and I find it very unsettling to hear certain things.  For example, I have read about the attitudes of scholars in the latter half of the twentieth century, who were appalled to have Jewish colleagues studying Shakespeare or Renaissance literature, as both are "Christian".  I was quite prepared for some of what I might find, but this strikes me quite hard, as do some of the stories I've encountered about British communities of conversos, Jews who accepted Christianity in order to escape the Inquisition.   In some ways the most upsetting thing I have found, however, is that their seems to be a great absence in terms of studying this subject within American literature.  The one large study I have run across on that specific subject spends a great deal of time discussing this issue, expressing that it is largely

Research I am looking through a window that does not see this day, but  shows long ago and far off, as well, but not so clear and not with eyes that were there, my eyes were not there, how could they see what they  were never present for? No, but the mirror does show something that is supposed to be what was then, it is more  than I had known, had seen, is not bright and clean, is not the image as a painting or drawn by a man standing on a grand lawn in the middle of a bright day, is not that, it shows what they have not, I think, it does, but is it a window or am I looking into a mirror I do not understand?

One of the impacts of considering language in the ways that I tend towards, at least for me, has been a shift in how I conceive of writing as an artform.  As I have stated in previous posts, my perspective is that language is first a tool of the mind, and that communication with language is a byproduct of this.  That is to say, the mind as we conceive of it exists through language, and the most significant relationship an individual has with language is personal, is about the self and the understanding of the world.  Language is, to use a crude metaphor, the software platform that allows consciousness as we experience it to run on the hardware of our human brains.  Language is a symbolic map that correlates to the world, both the literal world and the various phenomenological and metaphorical realms of our experiences, and is not simply a way of placing handles on concepts in a way that allows them to be passed back and forth. Thinking of language through this perspective has to have a

It Has Not Been Happening It was not good, was nothing I wanted, and I would never think it is a thing to miss or that I had any attachment to those incidents, they did not bring pleasure, did not mean anything good at all, or I though that, but, now, in this time of silence, when there is nothing, not good or bad, though I am certain it is always bad, because it has been that way for so long, and now that even the bad has stopped, even that is not here, it is gone, and I think it was better to have it coming, to see something, even if it was not progress it was still more than the silence that comes with nothing, that is empty and not filled with any intention.

Last night, I acknowledged my trepidation at raising questions around the subject of anti-Semitism, and pointed towards my underlying fear of having these comments dismissed and ignored as irrelevant.  This is, I think, a common fear among those who face bigotry and oppression, and I am certain that aspects of the experiences I have had are not unique to me or to my being Jewish, but I do think it is worth acknowledging that I had the luxury of growing up in a city with a large and thriving Jewish community, and was largely aware of these ideas from a distance until I was older and moved to other parts of the world where Jewishness is less common.   For example, I, like many Jews who grew up in the late twentieth century, was not all that familiar with the concept of the blood libel.  I think that the first time I can recall being taught about it explicitly was during my college years.  It may be that I had encountered the concept at some point before that, but this is my first distinc

Not Noticing Distraction is easy to find, look over there for it, in the corner of the room where there is not a mirror but could be one, where it might fit, or behind you at the shine of the tables surface, the wood gleaming from fresh polish, or consider your foot, the shape of that one toe, the nails, or that bit of dust floating in the air, hit just so by light beaming in the window, a small shaft about it, or just the idea of distraction is enough to keep things going, to not look at all, to not look in front of you, anyplace can be interesting, it is easy not to notice, simple enough to look everyplace but there and consider it a thing that never was because it was not seen, was missed in all the other distractions.

I am going to take a little break from discussing the larger concepts I have been focusing on this week.  In part, this is to give me an opportunity to consider these more carefully, as much of this has only become clear enough for me to discuss through the act of writing about it, and the specifics of the ideas are still rather tenuous.  So, I think it will be good for me to take a few days to think about this more carefully. I do want to discuss a different matter, at least in brief.  It is something that has been on my mind in various ways for a long while, but which I find difficult to discuss at times, though explaining that difficult is often equally hard.  In part, it is to do with the sensitivity of these subjects, and with the fact that I am discussing ideas which are often not recognized, and pointing out these matters can cause upset or seem like it is just silly and easily dismissed. I know I am not being clear, but the topic I am discussing is anti-Semitism as it exists in

Where We Disagree Some of what you say is sensible to me, is agreeable: not holding meaning so tight, not demanding it, and not demanding agreement, not focusing only on what is agreeable, what is easy, a willingness to take the risk of offending by offering ideas that are not your own, that may not even appeal, perhaps upset or anger. I can agree with you, that is all good, but other things, I do not know if they are agreeable as ideas I will accept, and do not suggest I must give you that chance, that you are due the opportunity, or point out that I have said I agree with your ethos of challenge, of difficulty, of accepting other views. What I desire you to do is not what will rule me.

The past few days, as regular readers know, I've been exploring certain ideas to do with language, and in particular with concepts related to belief and disbelief in relation to fictional works.  In considering this, I have found myself thinking about language itself in ways that alter how I conceive of it, and, yet, which seem, when I consider them, quite apparent.   Consider what language is, at root.  Now, the common answer is to consider it as a tool of communication, but it is also clear, upon a moments reflection, that language is used far more internally than externally.  Most of our thoughts, and certainly our conscious considerations, exist in language.  Looking around a room, noticing objects, the words for that name what I see enter my mind, even if not as a direct dialogue within me, they are present.  It is not the language I experience in communication with others that is the primary interaction I have with words, and I suspect this to be true for most everyone.  I co

Does It Smell at all of loss and old memories, or is it me needing to shower?  I keep forgetting if it is the same day or the next one, and whether I will need to ask, or should it be tomorrow when I bring it up again, or is it already another day, and why do I always catch that scent, the one I never can name, sharp, over-ripe, lingering, it has been here since yesterday, I remember that, the smell makes certain I can remember that.

Yesterday, I attempted to explain some of the higher level thinking about language that I have been pursuing.  The general take-away from that is the idea that language is the tool that organizes conscious experience, and that our interactions with language can create changes which will impact that mediation.  This is, at one time, quite obvious, but I think that obviousness is often based in misunderstanding.  I am not here talking about the interpretation and extraction of specific meaning from language, at least not that alone, but aspects of how language is structured that impact specific processes for a reader.  If I ask you a question, what is it that happens inside your mind?  How does the insertion of those questions here impact your reading experience?  The fact that you are being required to think in a linguistic way yourself is an interruption, and if I were not making you consider it, would you?  This is a small thing, but the point I am making is that when we use language,

Survival It is not that I want anyone to die, or that I desire things to go badly, that I am seeking vengeance, but if he is making it an issue in the political sense, and he is, he has, will, it is clear, and listen to what is said, to those claiming his recovery as proof of some superiority, as though he is the result of a eugenicists wet-dream, tell me I should not hope for them to be proven wrong, that it is not necessary, that it has not been made necessary, that I should not think of it in those terms too, and explain to me how I can do that without despairing, without recognizing that he and his supporters have made his survival an ideological threat to that of others, that it will not embolden the worst, prove to them that they cannot be stopped, are correct in all they wish to do. It is clear what it will mean, it is clear, and the terror is he has made it so it is impossible not to know, I do not want to feel it is best for things to go wrong, but any outcome is things going

Yesterday, I began to discuss the concept of suspension of disbelief, and the rather strange, if not a bit mad, concept of denying the reader the option of that disbelief.  This is a rather strange concept, I know, and it is rather abstract at the moment.  This is one reason I want to continue thinking and writing about these concepts, as that is one of the best ways for me to clarify my own thinking.  I want to be able to explain this notion in a way that is sensible, even more, I want the explanation to offer a practical understanding, but that is not a simple matter, will require a lot more consideration. For example, it is significant to consider language on a level that may is quite different from what I know I learned when studying writing in school, as it is a perspective rooted in the consideration of language in terms of the phenomenological process involved in understanding a piece of writing.  Words are not inert, but have an impact on the mind.  This is, of course, obvious,

Tell Me of Those Days The ones that came with darkness, with cold and wind, those days when suffering was the way we had to live, when it was impossible to be anything but a victim of the world, tell me of them, because I must know they came before to remember it ended then, it did not last, was only for a time, it came before, and it ended, remind me, also, it happened many times even before that one.

Suspension of disbelief, as a concept, has always been intriguing to me.  It is something I recall thinking about when I was first exposed to it during English classes in middle school, and I remember, as well, thinking about it in the context of a great many of the films I saw at that age.  In particular, I recall thinking that certain fantastical films, particularly some set in historical eras but with science fiction concepts, were designed, it seemed to me, around a sort of suspension of belief in the real world, in a far grander kind of gesture where the reality was so removed, it required more than dismissing details, but instead accepting alteration of reality in wholesale fashion.  This was not work that moved to an entire other world or posed a fantastical overlay that hid beneath ordinary reality, and was not traditional alternate history, either, but instead seemed to be using elements of our world in a way similar to the way a writer of traditional fantasy might incorporate

What Can I Say? There is what has been said, and what has not been said, but is that all?  Of course, there is what will or what might  or can be said, and what cannot be, will never be, has never been, or was once possible to say, but now, that is no longer within the capacity of language, but I do not mean in those ways, not the thought of what is or is not to be said or can be or cannot be, but some other direction that is not named, some other potentials within how words mean, a direction of their use that reflects what they cannot themselves hold directly, because it is said thought comes after, conscious thought as we consider it, resting in the words, what is that limit? What is the way to move this thing which becomes the place where the self must stand so it may be higher and see farther, by just the use, by unconstraining something unnoticed or by adding dimensions to what is possible within meaning? It does not seem that is the course, is still too operate at the same altitu

 I took it a bit easier today, in terms of my writing output, and I think it is good for me to be more comfortable with that sort of fluctuation.  I think it is important for me to write each day, and I do care about the daily output, but that is not only a matter of quantity, and many of the results are not even about what I write directly.  I realized this when I was at that point of being drained and not feeling at all motivated to write another poem, a sense that lasted far too long, and I worried it would continue.  I saw the importance of caring for myself, and of recognizing that I may need more downtime some days then others.  It is good to be able to go from a day like yesterday, where I wrote fifteen or twenty pieces, to today, when I only have four poems to show for it.  In the end, it may be, of course, that one of the poems I wrote today is a far greater work than anything I did yesterday.  Writing more poems is not a key to writing a better poem today, it is a different t

Welcoming It is quite strange what is deemed as inclusive, what options are extended to allow others to think they too might wish to come, that it will be a place they can enjoy, can be in with comfort, that is what you want to express, it is good to think you want that, but it might do more if you did not define what others want for yourself, if instead you made an effort to include those whose opinions you are simulating, if your inclusion was not only on the side of those whose money you seek to take.

 I have been quite busy writing today, even more so than most of the days in the past week or so, and I feel good about a lot of the work that I am doing.  It seems to me that I am not only writing with a greater sense of care and attention, but that I am finding ways to confront things that are difficult to write about, and to present ideas I never felt comfortable putting into a poem before.  Some of this is political, and some is personal, and some is both.  I don't know that I am yet finding the things that are most important, yet, and I would like to find ways to do work that is equally significant to me but with more joy.  In part, this is a response to the world at the moment, but that is not an excuse, and it may well be that the darkness I am seeing is a call for me to find beauty I am missing, to find what I can appreciate and praise in the world, even now.  It is significant to be able to tell truth, and the truths people want to hear may also be what they need in times

I See It in A Certain Way It is not as if I can think of any other way to see it, but I know my perspective is one that might do me harm, it is dangerous to have ideas that others will find uncomfortable, is considered an attack, can bring harm, but if it is not said, if the idea just rests within because their is danger, if that is the reason it may not be enough, though it is also unclear if it is right to say such things, if they are part of the world from a particular vantage and would lose too much context, if it is impossible to say it without it being cruel, and if that is the case, is it a necessary cruelty.

 I have been working on that chapbook more, and I think it works.  My goal with it is to find a way of interweaving the poems, developing something that is not just a bunch of poems, but feels connected and full in that way.  I think that a major problem, at least for me, in collecting work into a chapbook is developing the sense of it being a complete thing.  A larger book can often do this just by being the right length, but a chapbook is not so long as to provide that.  As well, it is short enough to make it feel casual.  It is easy for a reader of poetry to consider a chapbook as a sort of half-book, an appetizer in place of a meal.  I believe that the work I am doing on this chapbook overcomes that without, either, feeling it is limiting the books theme or making it impossible to include a variety of poetry that reflects many aspects of my work.  

The Right Choice It is not easy to make the selection, each time it is narrowed, a new detail becomes essential, but it always conflicts with other aspects already agreed upon, or is not available at this time, is only a proposal of an idea, and it is so important to get this correct, will be a decision we live with for years, it does not seem any compromise will be appropriate, and all the options are comprimises, so, instead, let us not do anything at all, let us be without and not have any of it, if we cannot have it all, let our suffering be total instead.